I am here. For what?
To dance. To listen to the music. To make fun of some people. To admire others. And to avoid, still, others.
I sit in this little booth, away from the crowd that has congregated over there, in the cluster of tables, while they watch the dancers, having come here, collectively, for the same reasons I listed above. I am always with them. But tonight. I am here, alone in my own booth, watching, listening, and avoiding to think.
There's the self-proclaimed teacher, tall like a tree, towering over the puny woman he's trying to teach a new move to. Why does he get a kick out of that? It always looks so awkward. It's like watching porn stars trying to fit into some sort of human contortion for the sake of the camera. What is he trying to do to her? And he always does this to people he knows are not brave enough to tell him off, newbies or those too old in the scene to realize they were hopelessly stuck in being at the newbie level. He comes the dance for his own reasons, I guess. But most of us, especially us men, come here partly for the ego. Someone told me the other day that men who tango are often not very attractive physically. I may add that they are also quite socially inept. Yes, it takes one to know one, but that's not the point. His explanation for this higher than average level of physical unattractiveness is that tango helps these men compensate for what they feel they lack. It's like buying a Ferrari, except that tango requires some work, which appeals even more to the less attractive geeks who populate behind these ivied walls.
So this giant of a teacher comes to feel he's the most admired dancer in town, even though none of the best women would dance with him, and he knows it because he is too timid to ask them. Avoiding rejection is one way to keep your ego intact.
There's another giant person, tall, lanky, like a winter tree about to be blown off by the blizzard, or at least be amputated by the inches and inches of snow on his arms. He's friendly. He's cute, for all the girls, but not in the physical way; rather, in the way you call animals cute, babies cute, a doll cute. He has no bad energy around him, unlike many people in this dance. He's almost, innocent. But he's also one of those that try very hard only to find himself stuck in a rut. Nevertheless, he has a great attitude that allows him enjoy dances of any quality and still maintain a genuine smile. More people, especially those who're climbing the ego ladder, could learn from him.
A woman sits in front of me. I know her. We are friends. More than that, she's one of my closest friends. She's like a sister to me. She's much younger than me, but she's just as mature as, if not more, than me. Yet, here, in the dim atmosphere of the restaurant that has allowed us to hold this weekly milonga, I am not interested in maturity. It's quite lacking in a milonga and it's quite irrelevant. She's beautiful. She is always smiling in here, every week. Her maturity has no bearing on her free spirit that brings out the most beautiful smile and gestures. She's an artist, perhaps that helps. We chitchat, we make fun, but we mostly just watched in silence as the beautiful music fills the room for three ours, trying to inspire love even in the most tone-deaf people, of which there seem to be a lot. We agree that to be a really good dancer, you at least have to love the music. That's the reason she's the best dancer here. I have no doubt. She grew up listening to that soulful music, and associate it with her passions as a human being growing up with a loving grandfather. I admire her. I am nervous when dancing with her. But I like being with her, submerged in the music, moving without mental resistance to the flow of the melodies. Sitting there, no longer alone, I felt again lucky to have such a friend.
An awkward looking man comes over, clearly wanting to dance with her, but his body seems to be twisting under some invisible force, atmospheric? It is like watching a building swaying above an earthquake and quickly crumble with its metal frame twisted. The smell of uncertainty and diffidence was becoming suffocating as I feel more and more sorry for him. I nearly don't dare to look at his eyes, but I do, and I see this hopelessness not unlike what a beggar on our streets have when imploring for change.
She is a good sport. She knows he's not going to make her suffer, not going to hurt her. It won't be a great dance, but at least it won't be painful. She smiles at him, which disarms him a little, as she gets up and takes his hand. He is all hunched up by now, despite feeling a little relieved that she accepted his offer. Here hardly anyone refuses an offer. Still, men, and to a slightly less extent, women, are always so afraid of rejections. Have I mentioned the ego factor?
Why dance? For the ego. For the enjoyment. For being close to someone you find attractive, at least a little bit. I was told that North Americans learn tango because they are lonely. They can't figure out how to be close to someone. I think about holding a woman in my arms. It's one of the most beautiful feelings, to have her all, not just her flesh and blood, but her aura that defines her as much as her physical appearance, her warmth, her scent, her touch, her voice. But to get there often we, men, have to play up all sorts of tricks to get a date, and not just dates, but dating. Here, in the simplified world of tango, I just have to ask, and my loneliness is temporarily parked outside like a chauffeur, who is not evil, just has a job to do.
I look at my friend dancing with the awkward man and notice that the dance is a little awkward but she isn't frowning, which means she isn't in pain. And I take a look at the other dancers, and I feel at peace. The music is sad, but not tragic. It's about a man whose life had been so empty before until she came along, then finally he found peace that one usually finds with God. Even though it sounds like a happy ending, the melody is very sad but energetic. Life is more than just lyrics to describe the moments, I guess; it's also about the feelings, the touch, the smell, the beating of the heart, and I look at the people. Even though most don't know or even care what the song is about, they are swept by the common language of emotion, they can imagine what it means, and make a story for themselves in the dance. Watching them, I find my own peace, and I remain sitting for a little while longer.
